


Cold Comfort

by DameRuth



Series: Flowers [11]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Explicit Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24719458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: Jack receives an unexpected visit while held prisoner on theValiantduring the Year That Never Was.  Part of the "Flowers" series.[Continuing the Teaspoon imports, originally posted 2008.06.01.]
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Lucy Saxon
Series: Flowers [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/14017
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Most of my responses to the ["fic you'll never write meme"](http://dameruth.livejournal.com/70039.html) over on LiveJournal ended up as fluffy crack, and were posted as ["Attack of the Crack"](http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=22137) here on Teaspoon. Not this one, though. The prompt was "Jack/Lucy Saxon" from badgerangel, and it led to this "prequel" to ["Target of Opportunity"](http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=17144) in the [Flowers!verse](http://www.whofic.com/series.php?seriesid=1079). This is similarly dark stuff, I warn you (at least by my standards). Thanks to aibhinn for beta-ing!
> 
> "ToO" will be briefly out of synch with this story, until I go back and re-edit it lightly to match up, BTW. Although this story fits in chronologiclaly before "ToO," I think it reads better as a "prequel," which is how I've chosen to place it in the series order.

Jack lay on his cot and stared at the faint discoloration of the ceiling tile directly overhead. He was lost in the carefully cultivated state of blankness he’d perfected during his time on the _Valiant_ as the Master’s guest. If he worked at it, he could manage not to think about much of anything, past, present or future. It made the waiting easier.

A thump and scrape at the door of the cell jolted him out of blankness, and he levered himself wearily up to face whatever was headed his way now. Probably one of the Master’s little one-on-one sessions, though he hadn’t thought enough time had passed since the last one. But it was hard to keep track of time, anymore; maybe he’d misjudged. Hell, maybe the evil bastard was getting extra turned on by today’s destruction and horror, whatever it might be.

Jack got his first jolt of real surprise when an unexpected figure slipped through the door, closing it firmly after. Not the Master, but Lucy.

She leaned against the closed door for a moment, staring at him. She was breathing heavily, showing off cleavage left uncovered by the red satin gown the Master dressed her in these days, but Jack’s gaze skipped over the view. What drew his eye was the trail of bruises along her neck and collarbone. The Master wasn’t even trying to hide the effects of his attentions, now. Not like before, when he’d been working to win over the voters of Britain.

Back then, Lucy had been tidy and respectable in her little Jackie Kennedy outfits and her prim string of pearls. It was what the public liked, what they expected. Now, when the opinions of other humans meant nothing, the Master made sure his “wife” looked like what she was: a pretty toy, a prize, an accessory.

A symbol. A scapegoat.

Lucy’s gaze was both intense and disturbingly empty, but Jack refused to break and speak first. He had no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t going to actively help in whatever twisted little game was revving up now. He simply sat on the edge of his cot and waited, meeting Lucy’s eyes with his own blank stoicism.

Crazy people hated that. Jack took whatever small revenges he could, these days.

“I don’t see what’s so special about _you_ ,” Lucy grated out unexpectedly. Her voice was low and venomous. “Down here in your hole. You freak.”

Jack absorbed the words as if they were meaningless noise, and waited.

Lucy pushed off from the door and stalked towards him. She started out awkwardly, but switched quickly to a gait that Jack realized was intended to be seductive. He had a sudden, bad feeling that things were about to get very weird.

She reached him and glared down at his expressionless, upturned face. “God, look at you. No backbone left. As bad as the Doctor.”

She spat the name, and an unexpected spark of real anger shot through Jack to hear the contempt in her tone. His outward control didn’t flicker, though, and Lucy noticed nothing.

“I bet you don’t even put up a fight,” she said, voice dropping to a hiss. She fisted her hand in Jack’s worn t-shirt and yanked upwards as she bent down and fastened her lips over his.

Jack had been half-expecting something of the sort, and played along to the extent of responding slightly. What _was_ this about? Some bizarre setup for the Master to come bursting in and play through an outraged-cuckold drama? What would be the point?

Best just to roll with the punches till he found out what was going on.

Lucy broke away from him, and ran her tongue across her lips. “What is it?” she asked, her tone low as if she wanted to scream in anguish, but was restraining herself. “What does he see in you that he doesn’t see in me?”

_Shit. Is this that simple?_ Jack wondered, searching Lucy’s face more actively. It was a disconcerting pastime — there was a distinct sense of real damage behind those pretty features: a faint lack of focus, a split second delay in tracking things . . .

Lucy leaned in close and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “He thinks I don’t know. He thinks nobody knows. But I know what he does with you. Why?”

She sounded so hurt, so _real_ in that moment, Jack actually wanted to answer her — would have done, if he’d had the faintest idea of what to say. How could he explain the weird, tense game of pain and leverage played between two Time Lords? Would it make any sense to tell Lucy that he was a pawn in that greater conflict, just as she was? Poor, young, blonde child with the terrible misfortune to love a monster while at the same time resembling a very different human woman . . .

“He loves me. He married me. I chose him,” Lucy said, making the words half enraged proclamation and half plaintive question. “I need to see, I need to understand . . .”

Out of pity, Jack let her shove him back flat on the uncomfortable cot without resisting. He even assisted her in small ways. It was easier than he might have thought. She was human, and warm, and he hadn’t touched a member of his own kind in that sort of way for a very, very long time. His body responded without needing any particular urging.

She didn’t bother removing their clothing — just pulled down his trousers; she was wearing nothing under the red dress. He let her take the initiative and though her movements were eager and forceful, they were also clumsy and unskilled. It occurred to Jack to wonder, _What is it like, with the two of you? How did he explain what was — and wasn’t — between his legs to you? What was your wedding night like?_ He shivered, and it wasn’t from desire.

She was straddling him, red satin flaring over her thighs as she roughly shifted him into position and attempted to press down. Jack felt moisture, but not nearly enough, and . . . resistance.

_God, she’s not . . .!_

Lucy made a frustrated noise that turned to a whimper as she tried to apply more force. Jack’s hands flew to her hips and gripped, forcing her up and away. It was the first move he’d initiated, and Lucy glared down at him uncomprehending, beginning to struggle.

Jack held her where she was, exerting his strength, and there was the faintest flicker of uncertainty in Lucy’s expression, mixed with frustrated rage.

“No!” Jack told her in a harsh, low voice. “Not like that.”

She began to struggle in earnest, and he added through clenched teeth, “Keep that up, and I’ll start screaming for the guards.”

That stopped her cold, and he knew he’d been right — this was a private, secret visit. From the sudden fright on her face, he knew she didn’t want to be discovered. That gave him the tiniest bit of leverage, metaphorically at least.

“Good,” he told her, more calmly. “Now . . .” He released his grip on her slightly, and she stayed where she was, upright, straddling his hips with her knees. When he was convinced she’d stay, he shifted his grip and slowly, gently ran one hand down her thigh and then back up under the red satin. He slid his other hand up her side until he could cup her breast and circle the nipple with his thumb. Her whole body jerked — and then again, harder, as he found what he was searching for under her dress. She threw her head back and made a tiny, whimpering noise in her throat.

_What has he been_ doing _to you, you poor kid?_ Jack thought in silent horror. She was acting as if she had no idea of her body and its pleasures, for all that the Master had made more than a few salacious hints about his conjugal activities to Jack.

_Whatever’s going on in their bedroom, I think it’s the blind leading the blind._

He worked her as gently as he could, while she let him, apparently lost in the sensations he was giving her.

_I’m sorry,_ he thought, helplessly, though he kept his features neutral. He had no illusions about Lucy Saxon’s enthusiastic complicity in the subjugation of Earth, her cheerleading — and sometimes outright participation in — all manner of atrocities. But yet . . . she still felt like a victim. So young, so inexperienced, so completely swamped by the massive, twisted force of an insane Time Lord’s mind and will. How much of the original woman was even left? Had the choice been as truly hers as she thought?

When he judged her as ready as she’d ever be, Jack momentarily stopped his attentions. Lucy’s head snapped forward, glaring, then her features softened slightly with comprehension as he replaced his hands on her hips and gently pulled her downwards. He took his time, and the first movements he initiated were small and slow. She responded with greater confidence as they progressed, and shifted to outright enthusiasm as he reached down between them and resumed his fingerwork.

She rode him to her release, eyes tightly shut, choking off whatever cry she might have made with grim determination, still managing to keep the need for secrecy in mind. That tiny scrap of self-control on her part surprised Jack, and sent a sad little twinge through him. What would she have been if she hadn’t ended up here, if she’d had the chance to be her own person?

Gasping for air, face flushed red, Lucy opened her eyes and looked down at Jack. Moved by compassion, he started to reach towards her face, intending to caress her cheek. It would have been the first touch with any hint of real tenderness between them, but Lucy pulled back, and bit her lip. Under the flush and her heavy makeup, she suddenly looked all of fifteen years old. Her brow furrowed, and she seemed almost ready to cry.

Jack took a breath, to say — God knew what, _something_ \-- but some invisible balance had been tipped, and Lucy was in motion, disengaging and hopping awkwardly off the cot. She caught her balance, still staring at him, her stricken look blending with more different, complex expressions than he’d ever seen on her face. Then she spun and fled for the door, stumbling once. She hit the palm-pad, wrenched the door open when her handprint was recognized, and slammed it closed again behind her.

Jack exhaled slowly, and dropped his head back to the cot. He hadn’t even gotten close to his own release, and his arousal was fading into an unpleasant ache. He briefly considered finishing himself off, but rejected the idea. He’d found that the more self-denial he practiced, the better he was able to respond satisfactorily to _Mister_ Saxon. Even with whatever drug the Master fed him, his time Agency Training, and his own natural proclivities, it was sometimes a near thing.

After a moment, though, he did roll off the cot, hike up his trousers to keep from tripping over them, and move to the sink for a round of cleanup. He wondered if he should have tried to hold Lucy captive, used her handprint to make an escape attempt . . . he was suddenly too tired to even complete the thought. It wasn’t like it would make a difference, anyway: he wasn’t here to escape, he was here to fight a holding action, and one passed-up opportunity to play pretend wouldn’t matter.

Feeling very, very old, Jack settled back onto his cot and resumed his study of the discolored tile.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=22204>


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